by Parnell Hall
“Blood!”
“Well, I’m not sure about the blood. But the car was broken into.”
“Is it still there?”
“No. The police towed it away.” Sophie finished her coffee, threw out the paper cup. “Well, I gotta get back to class.”
Sophie went out the door just as Julia Weinstein from the hairdresser’s came in.
“Julia,” Lydia Wakefield said, “did you hear what happened?”
“Who didn’t,” Julia said. “What’s this I hear about he took her clothes off?”
“Took her clothes off?” Anna Furst said.
“That’s what I hear. You didn’t hear anything about that?”
“Sophie said her socks and shoes.”
“There you are,” Julia said. “I knew there was something to it. The way I hear, the killer stripped the body.”
“Was she a movie star?” Lydia Wakefield said.
“Movie star?” Julia said. “I didn’t know that. Is that right?”
“I don’t know. I’m just asking.”
“All we know is she was famous,” Mary Cushman said. “Can I get you something?”
“I’ll have a coffee and a blueberry muffin,” Julia said. “Have they released her name?”
“Yes, and I didn’t know it,” Lydia Wakefield said.
“Then how could she be a movie star?”
“Oh, so you know the name of every movie star? What if it’s one of those actors who’s been in a million pictures and you know the face but you can’t recall the name?”
The front door banged open as Betty Dunwood came in. A severe-looking middle-aged woman, Betty Dunwood was the town clerk.
“Ah, Betty,” Mrs. Cushman exclaimed. “Just in time. You’re the one who’d know. The woman found in the cemetery last night—you heard about it?”
“Who hasn’t.”
“So tell me, was she a selectman?”
Betty Dunwood was taken aback. “No, of course not. What makes you think that?”
“See,” Lydia Wakefield said. “There you are. She must have been an actress.”
“An actress?” Betty Dunwood was confused.
“Sure,” Julia Weinstein said. “That would tie right in with the body being found naked.”
“Naked?”
“Yes. We hear he took her clothes off.”
In the corner of the bakery, Cora Felton sat, sipping her coffee and holding her tongue as misinformation swirled around her. Cora was grateful for the fact the proprietor still hadn’t figured out who she was—somewhat remarkable, since her picture’d been on the front page of Tuesday’s paper, not to mention today’s, which gave an idea of how accurate Mrs. Cushman’s assessments were.
Still, someone else might have recognized her, and every time one of the women glanced her way, Cora managed to have her head buried in this morning’s Bakerhaven Gazette. As a result, she had read the Barbara Burnside story more than once. Which made rather interesting reading in counterpoint to the women in the bake shop discussing the crime.
Cora Felton sipped her coffee, tried to chase her hangover. She’d had a Bloody Mary when she’d first gotten up, and now she’d moved on to coffee. In her eyes, this was the difference between a drinker and a drunk. For a drunk, the Bloody Mary would be the first drink of the day. A drunk would stick with liquor, head for a bar. For Cora Felton the Bloody Mary was just to take the edge off. After that, she would straighten herself out with coffee and would not drink again until dinner.
Cora Felton was a social drinker, not a drunk.
It was something she told herself many times.
Cora Felton finished her coffee, tucked her paper under her arm, and headed for the door. She chose a moment to do so when the women’s attention was diverted. She didn’t want to be spotted, recognized, questioned about the crimes. At least not here. She made her way quietly to the front door, slipped outside.
Her car was parked across the street in front of the library. There was a crosswalk at the corner, but in a town this size, Cora couldn’t really see the point. She stepped out between parked cars into the street.
A car turned the corner, came straight at her.
Cora had an instant of panic. The driver was trying to run her down. Then the car slowed to let her pass.
Cora Felton crossed the street, squeezed between two parked cars, stepped up on the sidewalk, and stopped dead.
Aaron Grant was sitting on the fender of her car. It occurred to her, for the amount of sleep he must have gotten, he didn’t look bad. At least he’d managed to shave, shower, change his clothes.
“Hi,” he said. “Thought this was your car. But you weren’t in the library.”
“No, I was in the bakery. But there wasn’t a parking spot there when I drove up.”
“Uh huh,” he said, nodding. “You want to take a ride?”
“Where to?”
“It doesn’t really matter. Just so long as no one bothers us.”
“Oh? What’s this?” Cora Felton said. “To pay me back for the you-might-be-the-killer remark? Or, wait, you are the killer, and I hit too close to home, and now you’ve got to eliminate me.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Aaron agreed. “You want to risk it?”
“I don’t see why not,” Cora said. “I’ll drive. That way if you kill me, the car goes off the road.”
“Sounds good,” Aaron said. “Shall we?”
Cora Felton unlocked her car. Aaron Grant got in the passenger side. Cora got in, started it up. She pulled out of the parking space, headed out of town in the direction of the Country Kitchen.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m driving as far as the high school and turning around. If you’ve got something to say, young man, say it by then.”
“You see this morning’s paper?”
“How could I miss it? I have it right here.”
“I see that you do. I’m wondering if you read it.”
“I read it. You took the Barbara Burnside story and ran with it. I’m not entirely sure why.”
“It’s part of the deal,” Aaron said. “I did it to pooh-pooh the puzzle angle.”
“Well, I bet you get little thanks for it,” Cora said. “You are rather young, you know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re impetuous. You do things without considering the consequences.”
“That’s a youthful trait?”
“ ‘Older and wiser’ isn’t just an expression. You learn not to do things after a while.”
“Uh huh. That’s not what I want to talk about.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. So what’s your pleasure?”
“I was hoping you could help me with a puzzle.”
Cora Felton grimaced. “We’ve been over all that. Or has there been another clue?”
“No, there hasn’t. And that wasn’t what I meant.”
“Oh? What did you mean, then?”
“In the paper. In today’s paper. That’s why I asked if you read it. I was hoping for some help with that.”
“With the Barbara Burnside story?”
“No,” Aaron Grant said. “I told you. With the puzzle. With today’s puzzle.” He took the paper, folded it open to the page. “Here we are. Today’s Puzzle Lady column. Today’s puzzle is entitled SHORTCAKE SHORTS. It tells the story of a woman who served shortcake to her luncheon guests, and had one more guest than pieces of cake. A rather amusing story, I must say.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your column. Your Puzzle Lady column. I need help with today’s puzzle.”
“You have to be kidding.”
“Oh, but I’m not. I started solving today’s puzzle, and I’m stuck on fifty-two across. Civil War boat. Seven letters. First letter m. Can you help me with that?”
“Now, see here,” Cora Felton said. “You did not hunt me up in the middle of a murder investigation to help you with crossword puzzles.”
“O
h, but I did,” Aaron Grant said. “It’s suddenly become one of the more intriguing aspects of the case. It’s a fact I need to know, and I’m going to have to insist on an answer. In today’s puzzle, what is fifty-two across, a seven-letter word for Civil War boat, beginning with m?”
“I have no idea. You think I remember all these puzzles?”
“No, I don’t. But I think you could help me with a perfectly straightforward clue.”
“If I happened to remember it. Which I have no particular reason to do.”
“Uh huh,” Aaron Grant said. “Well, it seems to me a seven-letter word for Civil War boat beginning with m would have to be the Monitor. Wouldn’t that be right?”
“If you know, why are you asking me?”
“To see what you’d say. Look here, Miss Felton. I’m a newspaper reporter. When I get a hold of a story, I don’t let go. You’re not going to get around me, and you’re not going to put me off. So why don’t you just come clean?”
“I beg your pardon? Come clean about what?”
“You can’t do crossword puzzles, can you?”
31
“Orange juice?” Aaron Grant asked.
Cora Felton grimaced. “Yes, I know. It’s too early for a real drink, and if I have any more coffee I think my head will come off. Besides, I need to keep my wits about me.”
“Surely it’s not as bad as all that.”
“Oh, no? I’m sitting here with a reporter. The one thing Sherry warned me about. And here I am, talking to the media.”
“This is off the record.”
“That’s what they all say. And the next day you’re in the National Enquirer.”
“You talk as if this has happened before.”
“Only once. And it went away.”
“How was that?”
“I sat tight and the guy gave up. After all, it’s a very small story.”
“Not really. You’re a celebrity.”
“In a TV commercial. Big deal. That’s not the same as a movie star. It’s the difference between an amusing tidbit and a shocking revelation.”
“Uh huh. Wanna tell me about it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Absolutely. You can clam up and tell me to go to hell.”
“What would you do then?”
“Go see Sherry.”
“That would not be good.”
“So here we are.”
Cora Felton took a sip of her orange juice, made a face. “God, that’s bad. Jerry, my first husband, got me on the wagon, made me drink this stuff. I’ve hated it ever since.”
“Bad associations?”
“No. I loved Jerry. It’s orange juice I can’t stand.” Cora took another sip, grimaced, and considered. “I don’t know what I can tell you. You seem to know everything already. It’s as if you’re here just for confirmation. Which is what reporters do before they print the story.”
“I’m not printing this.”
“So you say. Okay, let’s not go around again. So I can’t do crossword puzzles. Big deal. You gonna blow the whistle?”
“No, I’m gonna hear your story. As you say, I’m gonna hear it from you, or I’m gonna hear it from Sherry.”
“Sherry will not be inclined to talk to you. She’ll be inclined to talk to me. I don’t want that.”
“So you talk to me.”
“Yeah.” Cora Felton took another sip of orange juice, frowned. “Sherry always was a bright girl. Did well in high school, went to a good college. Dartmouth. Did well there too.”
“And?”
“Her junior year she met Mr. Wrong. Young, self-absorbed, played the guitar, wanted to be a rock star.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh. A walking disaster. The type of guy everyone can see is bad news, except the girl involved.”
“What happened?”
“They got married, Sherry dropped out of school, took a job, supported him while he launched his career.”
“Did he launch it?”
“In a manner of speaking. He managed to put a band together that performed just enough small gigs to attract a few groupies. He also used the money Sherry earned to buy enough drugs to keep up the pretense that he was in a successful band.”
“How long did that last?”
“Till she got pregnant.”
Aaron Grant blinked. “Sherry has a kid?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“No, not like that.”
“What happened?”
“What happened was Golden Boy came back from a night of carousing stoned out of his mind and took exception to Sherry asking him where he’d been.”
“No.”
“Yes. He beat her up pretty bad. You’d think a musician would be more careful with his hands. But this guy wasn’t much of a musician.”
“She had a miscarriage?”
“If you can call it that. She got beat up and lost her baby, as a result of trauma. Basically, the creep killed their kid.”
“She left him?”
“And never looked back. Good thing too. I don’t think she could trust herself around him.”
“How’d he take it?”
“About how you’d expect. Swore he’d be good on the one hand, blamed her for everything on the other, and refused to let go. He still hassles her from time to time.”
“When did this happen?”
“The split-up?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s been a couple of years.”
“And he’s still around?”
“In a manner of speaking. He’s the kind of guy gets loaded, feels persecuted, wants to avenge all wrongs.”
“I know the type,” Aaron said thoughtfully. “So what did Sherry do, after she lost the baby?”
“Moped around for a while. She took it hard. She really wanted that kid. She finally pulled herself together and went back to school.”
“She went back to Dartmouth?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she study?”
“Linguistics.”
“Uh huh. How did she do?”
“Graduated with honors. Came to New York, found an apartment, got a job.”
“As what?”
“Copy editor. Right up her alley. It was freelance work, wasn’t steady, but it left her time to do other things.”
“Like what?”
Cora Felton glared at him. “You know like what. Crossword puzzles. She had a real knack for ’em. Solving ’em, and making ’em up.”
“So?”
“So, she tried to sell ’em.”
“How’d that go?”
“About as well as her marriage. Another huge disillusionment.”
“Why?”
“Maybe she set her sights too high. I don’t know. I’m sure if she tried hard enough she could have sold a few puzzles. Maybe even got one in the Sunday Times. But that wasn’t what she was after. She wanted a full-time job.”
“How was that?”
“A syndicated column. In the national papers.”
“Like you have now?”
“Right. Only she couldn’t get it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Why does one movie get made and a hundred others don’t? It certainly isn’t the quality. There was nothing wrong with Sherry’s stuff. It was terrific.”
“But?”
“You gotta understand Sherry’s head. She’s coming off a bad marriage, she’s bitter, she’s disillusioned. She’s had it up to here with men.”
“I kind of got that.”
“Did you?” Cora regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, that’s what was in her mind. And that’s how she took her rejections. She regarded it as a sexist thing.”
“Was it?”
“Maybe. I mean, there is that mind-set. An editor looks at her and she’s so young and attractive how could she possibly be any good?”
“That’s a little simplistic.”
“Yes, it is. I’m sure the
re’s a zillion factors involved, but the bottom line is Sherry couldn’t sell her puzzles.”
“So what happened?”
“She gave up her apartment, moved in with me.”
“Where?”
“I had an apartment in Manhattan. Still do, actually. It’s just sublet. It’s a great apartment, I’ll never give it up.”
“Uh huh. And the column?”
“It just happened. Sherry came up with the concept. As a result of having struck out. Came to the conclusion it was all hype and all image. She needed a new image.” Cora shrugged. “I happen to photograph well. Look like somebody’s sweet old grandmother.” She made a face. “Truly revolting concept, but there you have it. Sherry went to work, put together the Puzzle Lady column. Wrote it around my picture, had me submit it under my name.”
“It was an instant hit?”
“I wish. It took months of hard work. And it didn’t get syndicated overnight. First one small paper picked it up. Then another. Then another. Then the whole thing really took off.”
“Uh huh. Why’d you move?”
“I lived in New York all my life. I have a lot of friends. Not that many do crossword puzzles. But they all have TV. When the ad came out, my phone was ringing off the hook. That’s when that reporter found me, by the way, the one I told you about. Anyway, I made a lot of money off of that ad. And it occurred to me I could sublet my apartment for twice what I pay. It seemed like a good time to get out of town.”
“How’d Sherry feel about it?”
“Well, you have to understand. This happened to coincide with one of Dennis’s little visits.”
“Dennis?”
“Her husband.”
“Husband or ex-husband?”
Cora waggled her hand. “Sherry spoke to a lawyer, went back to using her own name. Whether it’s finalized or not, I couldn’t say. Sherry doesn’t talk about it.”
“Uh huh,” Aaron Grant said. He frowned. Considered. “So this whole business—the crossword puzzle clues—they don’t really mean anything?”
“Well, not to me,” Cora Felton said. “They never did. But they do to Sherry, and that’s all that matters. She is the Puzzle Lady. As for me …” She smiled, shrugged. “I’m just a pretty face.”
“Must be tough.”
“Hey, I don’t mind. Just a little inconvenient now and then. Particularly with the police expecting me to solve two murders for them.”
